1

I’m a humble writer who recently published a pair of short stories in two relatively unknown literary journals. The first story was 3,587 characters, which includes punctuation marks. The second story was a bit longer, coming in at 4,623 characters, also including punctuation marks.

I’m getting ready to write a novel based on a few ideas that have been living inside my mind for the past twenty-odd years. The ideas aren’t the best neighbors; not only do they not get along with each other, but they often get into fights. I know they’re all vying to be the ‘first written’ out of my mind and onto paper. I try to persuade them that being the ‘first written’ isn’t as important as being ‘well written’. But they lack confidence in my writing ability. According to them, I’ve only got one novel in me. They’re afraid that if they don’t make it out first, they will end up dying in incubation. Thanks to their incessant arguing, I haven’t been able to write a single character in twenty years. Of course, this is merely an excuse. The real reason is my lack of confidence in ever getting my novel published.

One afternoon twenty years ago, I cautiously stepped through the gate of a famous publishing house. Following the mottled cement staircase up to the fifth floor, I gently knocked on the unlatched door of the editorial office for literature. A woman’s voice responded:

‘Come in.’

I pushed open the door and went in. Although there were a dozen desks in the room, there were only two people inside, a man and a woman. The male editor looked to be in his early twenties while the woman was around forty. The woman asked me:

‘Who are you looking for?’

I was at a loss as I stared at the tall pile of unopened packages of manuscripts stacked up on the desk. There was another batch of manuscripts stacked up in the corner of the room. The young male editor was sitting beside the desk closest to the door. Seeing that all the manuscripts on his desk were addressed to someone named Sun Qiang, I said:

‘I’m here to see Sun Qiang.’

The female editor pointed to the male editor and said: ‘He’s Sun Qiang.’

The editor named Sun Qiang looked at me in confusion. He couldn’t remember ever having seen me before. I flashed him a modest smile before taking out of my backpack copies of the two journals that had previously published my short stories. I opened them up to the page where my stories appeared and handed them to him, pointing out which one was my first published work and which was the second. He glanced at the magazines before asking:

‘What do you want?’

I said I had a few ideas for a novel that I wanted to bounce off him; if he was interested in any of them, I could go home and get right to work. I pulled up a chair and sat down, preparing to tell him all about my ideas when he interrupted me:

‘Hey, I’m not a doctor.’

I was a bit taken aback. Not understanding what he meant, I hesitated for a moment before going on to tell him about my first idea. I only got through the first two sentences when he interrupted me again:

‘Didn’t I just tell you, I’m not a doctor at some medical clinic!’

‘I know,’ I began to grow uneasy. ‘You’re a literary editor.’

That’s when someone with a woven plastic bag came in to collect the recyclables. He seemed to be close with the editors because he pointed to the pile of manuscripts in the corner and said:

‘Not too many today.’

With that, he squatted down to dump the manuscripts into the woven plastic bag. Meanwhile, Sun Qiang got up and walked out. He didn’t bother giving me a second look; it was as if I didn’t even exist. I sat there awkwardly for a moment before the female editor said:

‘Why don’t you head home? You can send us your manuscript when it’s done.’

I nodded. Glancing at the person in the corner who was still filling the garbage bag with unopened manuscripts, I got up and walked out of the office. Standing on the street, staring back at this famous publishing house, I knew what the fate of my ideas would be if I ever sent them here. They would be crammed into that woven plastic garbage bag, and sold to a recycling center to be made into new paper.

Later, I went to a not-so-famous publishing house where I met an editor in his fifties. While he stopped short of saying ‘I’m not a doctor’, he also had no interest in listening to my ideas. While his attitude was much friendlier than Sun Qiang’s, he still just briefly thumbed through the copies of those two relatively unknown literary journals I brought and told me frankly that it is extremely difficult for an unknown author to publish a novel. Seeing my dejected response, he offered a smile and asked:

‘Do you want to write to be famous, or do you have a real passion for literature?’

‘I have a true passion for literature,’ I responded without hesitation.

‘Then that’s going to be difficult,’ he said. ‘If you want, you can try the route of self-publishing. That involves paying us to issue an ISBN and then finding a printer. You could print around 500 copies to give to your relatives and friends.’

What he said perked my interest so I asked: ‘How much is an ISBN number? What would it cost to print 500 copies of a book?’

‘The ISBN will set you back 15,000 RMB; 500 copies will cost around 5,000 RMB to print. You’re looking at 20,000 to publish your book.’

‘Wow, so expensive!’ I cried. At the time my monthly salary was only 200 RMB.

‘When independent book publishers purchase ISBNs from us, we charge them 20,000. We only offer them 15,000 a title when they buy more than ten from us at a time.’ He paused for a moment: ‘I’m actually offering you our bulk rate.’

‘I don’t understand, why would independent publishers need to purchase ISBNs from you?’

‘Only legitimate state-owned publishers are permitted to issue ISBN numbers. Private enterprises technically aren’t allowed to run publishing houses, so they have to purchase ISBN numbers from state-owned publishers.’

‘And what if I don’t want the ISBN number and just publish my novel on my own by going directly to a printer?’

‘That would be considered an illegal publication.’

‘Is that dangerous?’

‘Well, they could arrest you and throw you in prison!’

I got up and left that not-so-famous publishing house, staggering dejectedly down the street and later staggering dejectedly through every moment of the ensuing years.

I once hoped that my son might take up literature and fulfill my unrealized dreams, but all he was interested in was video games. When he was in middle school my little brother gave him a PlayStation Portable (PSP). Every night he played video games under the covers in bed. Now that he is all grown up and has a job, he doesn’t have to hide anymore and can openly play video games on his phone whenever he wants. My niece, on the other hand, was obsessed with books. My weak literary genes skipped my son and somehow ended up with her. I have always treated my niece like my own daughter, meticulously tutoring her and helping her with her homework, from elementary school all the way through high school. By the time she reached college she no longer needed my help. She began to publish her essays in magazines, followed by a series of short stories. One after another, her stories appeared in print like a flurry of flowers blooming in spring – there was no stopping her.

When her first collection of short stories was published, it was brought out by that famous publishing house. Sun Qiang, the young editor who once told me ‘I’m not a doctor’, was now the head of the house and he personally moderated the discussion at her book launch. Sun Qiang referred to her as ‘Eileen Chang reincarnated’, while the media referred to her as a representative figure in the new wave of ‘attractive women writers’.

That was also when she got pregnant. Out of the blue, she was going to have a child.

She woke up one day in the afternoon and began to suspect that she might be pregnant. Ever since she began her career as a writer, she stopped getting up early and would sleep until noon. After waking up that day, she washed up, brushed her teeth, got dressed and put on her makeup, before telling her parents that it had been two months since her last period and she was going to go to the hospital to check if she was pregnant. With that, she went out the door without bothering to eat anything.

My brother and sister-in-law sat there staring at each other in shock. It took a moment for what she said to sink in. My brother even asked my sister-in-law: ‘What did she just say?’

After thinking about it for a second, my sister-in-law said: ‘She said she was going to check something at the hospital.’

‘Did she say she was going to check if she was pregnant?’ my brother asked.

My sister-in-law nodded. ‘I think that’s what she said . . .’

‘How is that even possible?’ my brother yelled. ‘She’s not even married! Hell, she doesn’t even have a boyfriend!’

‘She may not be married . . .’ my sister-in-law replied, ‘but maybe she does have a boyfriend?’

‘Did she ever mention anything about having a boyfriend to you?’

‘Never.’

‘Me neither.’

My brother called me and the first words out of his mouth were: ‘Do you know if Mianyang has a boyfriend?’

Mianyang, or ‘sheep’, is my niece’s pen name. Once she had gained some degree of celebrity on the literary scene, her parents seemed to have forgotten her real name; instead, they always referred to her as Mianyang.

‘Mianyang has a boyfriend?’ I asked through the phone. ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘We’re actually not sure if she has a boyfriend or not; do you know anything about her having a boyfriend?’ he asked.

‘If you don’t know, how do you expect me to know?’ I replied.

‘There are some things that Mianyang refuses to share with us but tells you.’

Those ‘things’ she shares with me are all related to literature. ‘I don’t know. She never mentioned anything about a boyfriend to me,’ I said.

‘If you don’t even know whether or not she has a boyfriend, how the hell did she end up pregnant?’ he said.

I could hear my sister-in-law: ‘She’s getting it checked out right now, we still don’t know if she is really pregnant.’

‘How is that possible?’ I asked.

My brother started to explain what was happening over the phone, with my sister-in-law repeatedly cutting in. Eventually, my brother grew irritated and barked at his wife: ‘Can you stop interrupting me!’

My sister-in-law instead snatched the phone from my brother and said: ‘She blurted out something about possibly being pregnant and ran off to the hospital!’

‘Maybe she’s in the middle of writing a novel and was just reciting some dialogue from her story without even realizing it?’ I suggested.

‘That’s a possibility,’ said my sister-in-law. ‘Actually, she has been acting a bit strange ever since she became a writer.’

‘Aren’t all writers a bit strange?’ my brother asked.

‘What can I say . . . ?’ I replied. ‘I suppose that sometimes they act normal, and sometimes they act strange.’

‘Then how come you’re always so normal?’ my sister-in-law asked.

‘That’s because my brother isn’t a real writer,’ I could hear my brother explaining to her.

‘Shh, lower your voice,’ my sister-in-law whispered to him.

‘No need to lower your voice,’ I said. ‘I can hear everything, and you’re right, I’m no writer!’

Mianyang came back from the hospital around 4 p.m.; she handed her parents the lab report and told them she was pregnant. Facing their flustered expressions, she casually instructed them that, from that day forward, she would be resting at home to ensure the health of her baby. She would be taking all of her meals in her room and, besides going to the bathroom, would not be leaving her bed until the baby was born. With that, she went into her bedroom, closed the door, and climbed into bed.

My brother and sister-in-law butted heads as they simultaneously looked down to read the result of the pregnancy test – it was indeed positive. My sister-in-law rushed into Mianyang’s bedroom screaming:

‘You’re not even married! How could you possibly be pregnant?’

‘What, you can’t get pregnant unless your married?’

Desperate for help, my sister-in-law turned to my brother, who also began yelling: ‘Since when did you even have a boyfriend? How come you never told us?’

‘You tell me, since when have I ever had a boyfriend?’ Mianyang retorted.

My brother and sister-in-law looked at each other in confusion; it was only after a long pause that my brother finally asked: ‘So you don’t have a boyfriend?’

‘No,’ replied Mianyang.

That sent my sister-in-law into another frantic attack: ‘How could you possibly get pregnant without a boyfriend?’

‘I have a lover,’ replied Mianyang.